Very Good Night
by I Heart Wolf
Summary: Mark finds release in ice skating. Slash, MR. Rated for language.


**A/N: This is my first slash and first RENTfic ever. So be kind, pretty please? But, be critical. Let me know if I suck, hm? ;) This was supposed to be for speedRENT but I got done with it a little too late (try three hours too late hehe) the prompt was ice skating.**

**Disclaimer: I do not own the RENTverse nor any of it's inhabitants. If I did, you would hear a lot more moaning coming from that loft. ;P I kid, I kid. But seriously, Johnathan owns them. He bought them to life and we love him for it.**

**Well, here goes nothin'..**

Very Good Night  
by:  
I Heart Wolf

Roger glanced at the clock expecting it to tell him what was going on, scowling at it for doing no more than ticking. The ticking wasn't going to help him figure out what was going on. Nonetheless, it ticked on, the small sound echoing off of the walls of the empty loft.

"Well, are you going to tell me where he is?"

The clock merely went on its clock-y ways, ticking and tocking, paying no attention to him. It was January 17, 10PM, Eastern Standard Time. At least that's how Mark would have put it if he were sitting next to Roger, aiming the camera at him, and narrating some meaningless gesture Roger had just done like tap his foot out of boredom that Mark found some strange hidden meaning behind.

"January 17, 10PM, Eastern Standard Time. Roger is tapping his foot on the floor – possibly a new song? Don't be shy Mr. Musician – give your adoring audience a sneak preview!"

Roger then would have rolled his eyes at Mark, Mark would have continued to film him adding some sarcastic remark about Roger lightening up (at which Roger would have laughed or thrown a pillow at him depending on his mood), and if it was a good night the two would have wound up laughing over a comment made here or there.

This wasn't a good night. Mark wasn't filming him – Mark wasn't even _there_, and that's what was making Roger the most nervous. Mark never went out without calling and Mark never went off without a word. Most importantly, Mark never left without his camera. The camera sat on the table a few feet away from the couch where Roger sat, its rickety handle and worn out screws jeering at him, making him feel worse off than he did already.

"_He left without me! He never leaves without me! What did you do this time, Mr. Badass Rocker? I swear if you hurt My Mark I'll…"_

"It's not my fault! He didn't even give me the chance to say anything! You have to believe me."

Roger shook his head. He was talking to inanimate objects for chrissakes – first the clock, now the camera! Before giving any other of the household items a chance to make fun of him, Roger flung himself off of the couch, grabbed his leather jacket and keys, and headed for the loft door. He was going to find Mark come hell or high water or – shit – snow. A stiff, frozen January wind almost knocked Roger down as he walked out of the building, his feet buried in the ankle deep snow. Shit. Shit shit damn shit. This was not good at all. Roger's thoughts immediately flew to Mark's jacket, that poor, old worn out thing, and the holes he knew were forming in Mark's shoes. If he was outside in this Roger was sure Mark was going to get sick. He had to find him.

It was eerily quite for a night in New York City, even for a snowy one. Usually the occasional taxi would plow through middle of the street or one might encounter another brave soul daring the weather and earn a smile of acknowledgement, but tonight there was nothing. Alphabet City was a ghost town; the only sound audible was the crunch of the snow under Roger's shoes and the leathery squeak of Roger's jacket whenever he moved his hands to warm them. It was starting to snow harder and Roger lengthened his strides determined to get to the once place he knew might be some help.

* * *

Collins heard the faint knock coming from the front of his apartment and frowned, glancing at the clock. Who would be here this late? He stood up from his desk and went to the door, pulling it open quickly in a futile attempt to hide his concern. 

"Je-sus _Christ, _Roger, what's wrong?"

At first sight Roger looked like a helpless little boy out playing in the snow whose mother just informed him it was time to come inside. His blonde hair was wet from the snow, slightly windblown in places, and some of it was stuck to his forehead. His cheeks were a deep purple from the bite of the wind, and his bottom lip was protruding in an all-too-innocent-to-be-Roger pout.

"Aw damnit, Roger. What did you do this time?" Collins asked throwing his hands in the air and motioning for Roger to come inside. The door closed behind the two men. Collins went to the back and came back out, towel in hand. He threw it at Roger.

"Sit down, man. Why in the hell did you walk here? You ever hear of a phone?"

Roger mumbled something that sounded like "..phone would have made fun of me anyway.." and shook his head.

"Roger? Roger? Hello, Roger. Come back to Collins." Collins waved his hand slowly in front of Rogers face before slapping him lightly on the cheek.

"Wha-? Oh. Yeah.. Right.. Collins have you seen Mark?" Finally out of his thoughts Roger was suddenly frantic. "Collins, Mark is out there! It's cold and wet and it's snowing and we had a fight after he kissed me and I froze and – froze! – he's gonna freeze! Is he here Collins I-"

"Wh-oa! Roger, Roger! Slow down man, chill. Mark what? He.. oh man. Alright listen. First thing's first. No, Mark is not here, but I know where he might be. This is going to sound a little strange, but I think I know where he is."

"Where, Collins? I need to find him, please! I'm not mad at him I swear I just want to see if he's-"

"Central Park. He told me once sometimes when he's upset he likes to go to Central Park. Something about the visually striking who-knows-what about it. But that's beside the point. You'll probably find him there, Wollman Rink. You know the place? It's in the park. Go there. I'm sure he'll be there. You can explain the rest to me later when you two work your shit out."

"Collins.. Wha-? Wollman Rink? He's fucking _ice skating? _Collins.. what..?"

"Roger. Are you going to sit here and bitch about where he is or get off of your ass and get him home?"

Roger stood up thanking Collins between mumbles about "fucking ice skating" and "goddamned snow" and walked out of the apartment.

* * *

Wollman Rink was so peaceful when it snowed. There were no obnoxious lines of people, mainly consisting of lovesick tourists under the misconception that if they hold hands while they ice skate it makes it easier for everyone, being herded in a circle like cattle on the ice, no hour-and-a-half intervals that would end with you being kicked off of the ice and made to wait for the Zamboni to clean it (which took FOREVER), and best of all, there was no flustered best friend looking at you with those confused but oh-so-goddamned-sexy green eyes after you had just planted one on him without a word. 

Mark ignored the wind that blew the cold through his the small rips in his jacket and allowed his legs to take him wherever they wanted. He danced on the ice carelessly, occasionally gliding backwards into a more than graceful figure eight or jumping from one foot to the other. His arms were moved on either side of him like ribbons blowing in the wind, almost taking on a dance of their own. The snow fell around him swirling around his body as he moved effortlessly through it.

Normally he was Mark – poor, geeky, could-trip-over-air Mark. But when he was on the ice it was different. Mark had learned to ice skate when he was young, it was one of the kids' favorite past times at the Jewish Community Center. The first time he stepped out onto the ice he wasn't scared. It was almost as if he knew without ever learning how to manipulate his weight and movements to get that right turn, that proper glide. For once he knew what to do with himself, instead of fumbling with things and falling over nothing. When he was on the ice Mark was in control, he was comfortable. When he was on the ice Mark was graceful, powerful, and smooth. He needed to be reminded of that right now.

'Well, Marky old boy, you've really gotten yourself into some this time. Did you think it would have been better if you hadn't said anything? Did you honestly think it would work to just go right up to him and lay one on him? What did you think was going to happen, Marky? Did you think he was going to throw his hands in the air and proclaim his undying love – and bisexuality for that matter – to you? All because of a kiss? No no, Mark, even better, did you think he was actually going to kiss _you?_ The man could bed some of the most beautiful women in New York City with a single wink, and you honestly thought he was going to choose poor, geeky, clumsy, male Mark? HA! Oh Marky Marky Marky.. ever the hopeful one. You really messed up good this time. He probably doesn't want to see you or worse, he's probably moved his stuff out of the loft already. Why would he want to live with a scrawny filmmaker who pines over him like a groupie?"

Mark stumbled on the ice and almost fell. He used his hand to catch himself and gently push his body upright. He shook his head and tried to clear himself of the thoughts that were threatening to make him fall. Mark would not let them get to him, not while he was skating – not in his place. He inhaled deeply, the cold air filling his lungs, and continued to drift along unaware that Roger had stopped, out of breath from nearly running the entire way there, at the edge of the rink to watch him.

* * *

Roger's breath was fast and shallow when he finally made it to the rink. The cold air stung his throat and made his eyes water. He grasped the side of the rink tightly and put his weight on it, bending over slightly to catch his breath. Roger took a minute to relax before standing up to get a better look around. Collins told him there was a good chance he would find Mark here and sure enough there he was, in the middle of the rink. Fucking ice skating. Roger was about to yell something laced with a few curses for good measure, but something made him stop. There in the middle of the rink, was Mark. Fucking ice skating _well_. Mark moved smoothly across the ice with ease and poise, something Roger had seldom seen in the filmmaker. Mark shifted his body in ways Roger had never pictured him able to do. It was almost sensual. Hell, it _was_ sensual. It moved him more than any song could. Roger felt his heart swell and he couldn't help but smile. Mark had his eyes closed, concentrating on nothing but himself and his movements. He was thinking about himself for a change, not about Roger or HIV or having no food or AZT. He was so peaceful.

Roger decided not to shout any sarcastic comments or make any remarks about how stupid Mark was for running out here in the cold without a word. There was something mesmerizing in watching Mark skate, something that tugged on Roger's heart and made his legs threaten to go out from under him. He held on to the edge of the rink tighter now, tighter than any lack of breath would have made him. He was in love.

Roger shook his head. Wasn't love supposed to be complicated? It was supposed to take years to fall in love with someone, to finally realize that they are all that you want and all that you will ever need. It wasn't supposed to be as simple as watching someone ice skate, and yet there it was staring him dead in the face bolder than any clock or camera would ever dare. Roger smiled to himself. 'This didn't start with ice skating,' he thought to himself. 'This didn't even start with that damned kiss. This started the minute you saw him, it started when you met – when you became best friends. MarkandRoger, or RogerandMark. It started when you realized you needed him as much as he needed you.'

Roger searched for an opening in the wall surrounding the rink and, finding none, flung himself over the side and onto the ice. He made his way slowly to where Mark was mid-figure eight. He could not keep the grin off of his face, even as the ice underneath him made the cold air colder. His grin didn't even fade when he woke up seconds later with a very distressed Mark hovering over him.

* * *

Mark opened his eyes a bit too late, and was only able to see a dark blur of colors before he went crashing into it. He groaned, cursing himself for not being more careful, and slid off of the dark blurry thing. Well, it was the thing's fault, wasn't it? What the hell just trots out onto an ice rink in the middle of the night? He straightened his glasses and looked down, and the blurry-ice-assassin as he had officially dubbed it started to take shape. 

"Jesus! Roger!"

Roger groaned and opened his eyes slowly. Mark was staring down at him obviously distressed. This only made his grin wider. He never realized how adorable Mark was when he was worried. Roger felt a pair of arms slip around his shoulders and he was hoisted into a sitting position, grinning like a madman.

"Roger. I don't find the humor in this. What the hell are you doing out here? You do know it's snowing, right? You could get sick! I almost killed you!"

"Mm.. s'ok.. I've had worse hits than that," Roger replied.

"Well still, it's freezing out! It's snowing, and wet! You're going to get sick."

"Well, Capitan Obvious, would you like me to sew you a cape?" Roger asked, still grinning.

"Haha, wiseass. I'm not amused. For the last time Roger, what the hell are you doing out here?"

"When you didn't come back I got nervous. You didn't even take your camera, Mark. You _always _take your camera. I went to Collins' place and he told me I might find you here."

"Jesus, you _walked _to Collins'? Then here? Fuck, Roger! You're going to get sick!"

"Alright _mom _I get it, I might get sick. I wanted to find you. You were gone for a while and I got nervous. I didn't want to wandering the fucking streets alone at night, okay?" Roger pulled away from Mark and stood up, momentarily forgetting what he originally walked onto the ice to do. "Excuse me for being fucking concerned."

"I'm a big boy, Roger. I can take care of myself!"

"Jesus Mark, I was fucking nervous, okay? You – you _kissed_ me and then ran off for god's sake! I didn't know what else to do!"

Mark could feel the blush warm his face at the mention of the kiss. He didn't want Roger to know he ran out because he was scared. He didn't want Roger to see the emotion he knew was evident in his eyes. Most of all, he didn't want Roger to see how much it was hurting him to say what he was about to say.

"Yeah, well, I'm fine. Lets just go home and forget about it, okay? It was a mistake, I didn't mean to. Lets go home and get warm and go to bed." Mark's voice cracked slightly, but he chalked it up to the cold. He could do this. He was strong enough to shrug off the kiss as an act of loneliness, to make nothing of it.

"Mark.." Roger started.

"Roger, lets go home, okay? It's cold." Mark made his way over to the side of the rink where he left his shoes and hopped the barrier off of the ice. He looked over at Roger who was still standing in the middle of the rink.

"Roger! Lets go!"

Roger didn't move. Mid-argument with Mark he realized he'd come out there for a reason: to tell the filmmaker that he loved him. He was sure he'd lost his chance when Mark had told him to forget about this kiss, but Roger couldn't give up that easily. He was never a quitter – well, he was, but that kind of quitting was good for him, damnit! – he wouldn't quit on Mark now. Roger stood in the middle of the rink waiting for Mark to come back out and lecture him on the importance of keeping warm and why they had to go home to make his move.

Mark sighed and hopped back over the wall, skating over to Roger.

"You're a stubborn ass, Roger Davis. You know that? Can we just go home now?" Mark motioned for Roger to follow him off of the ice.

"Where did you learn how to ice skate like that?" Roger's gaze followed Mark who was slowly moving in circles around the songwriter.

"When I was little my mother always sent me to the Scarsdale Jewish Community Center. They had a rink there, and we could skate whenever we wanted. I was curious one day, so I took a pair of skates and tried it. I fell in love."

Roger felt his stomach lurch when Mark mentioned love. Would Mark ever say that about him? There was only one way to find out, and Roger was on his way to doing just that.

"You're really good." Roger stated.

Mark could feel the blush begin at his collar and rise to his hairline. Damn that blush, always giving him away. He stopped circling Roger and looked down at the ice.

"Thanks," he mumbled.

Roger moved closer to him placing a hand under Mark's chin, tilting his head up so they were eye to eye.

"I mean it, Mark. You are so graceful. I was watching you skate and it's so emotional, so open. When you film something you look content, but you're still filming life. There's still that tension there. But not with this. When you're out there you look so relaxed and happy. I like it. I like seeing you happy, it makes me happy. I love you, Marky. "

Roger smiled. During his tiny speech he mad managed to move his face inches from Mark's who was either too shocked or too caught up in Roger's words to care. Mark's eyes had closed slightly and his breath was shaky. He clung to Roger's sleeve for support and Roger could feel him shaking.

"Love you, Marky," Roger whispered again before closing the space between them, pressing his lips to Mark's. He heard something that sounded like a whimper come from the filmmaker and Mark sank into his arms. Roger deepened the kiss, placing one hand on Mark's neck and the other on the small of his back, pulling him closer. Mark wrapped his arms around Roger's neck. Roger's tongue grazed Mark's bottom lip begging for entrance, and when Mark opened his mouth and their tongues met the passion was too much and both men lost their ground.

The kiss ended what seemed like hours later, and they lay panting in each other's arms on the ice. Roger held Mark to him as if he was trying to make the smaller man a part of him, not daring to let go lest the moment be over.

Mark pushed away from Roger slightly and looked up at him.

"Roger."

"Yes, Mark?"

"Roger.. I.." Mark was at a loss for words. For once his comments and lectures and witty remarks had run dry. He started at Roger like a painter would his muse, memorizing every line on the songwriter's face. When Roger smiled tears threatened, stinging his eyes and finally spilling over onto his cheeks.

Roger looked down at the smaller man in his arms and smiled. He saw the tears fill Mark's eyes and he sat up quickly, making Mark do the same.

"Mark! What's wrong? Don't cry, oh please don't cry."

Mark sniffled and wiped his eyes. "It's not bad tears, Rog. I'm okay.. they are happy tears."

"Happy tears? Ugh, Marky, that's so cliché," Roger teased.

Mark laughed and punched the songwriter gently on the arm. "Hey, I'm not the one who confessed his love in the snow."

Roger chuckled and pressed his lips lightly to Mark's. Mark wrapped his arms around Roger pulling him into a warm embrace.

"I love you, too, Roger," he whispered. "I always have."

"I always will," Roger whispered into Mark's neck.

"Uh, Rog. My ass is cold."

"Hm? Oh. Well.. We're in public, Marky, do ya really want me to take care of-"

"What? Jesus, Roger! You really do have a one-track mind! No! My ass is cold, we're sitting on ice!"

This time it was Roger's turn to blush. He felt the warmth start from his collar and work its way up, silently cursing as it did so.

"Why Roger Davis, are you _blushing_?"

"Musicians do not blush, Mark. It's just cold."

"Mhm.. Suuure, big bad rocker. Lets go home."

They made their way off of the ice hand in hand, and Mark suddenly realized why all of those tourists thought it was such a good idea.

* * *

Mark stepped out of the hot shower (thank god the heat hadn't been turned off just yet), and went to the table grabbing his camera before sitting on the couch next to Roger. Roger was watching him fumble with some screws and loose things here and there before finally turning the handle and pointing the camera at Roger. 

"January 18, 1:05AM, Eastern Standard Time. Roger Davis, international hardass sex god, is smiling. What could this mean? Tell the folks at home, Roger, the fans need an answer!"

Roger could only sit and smile, because for once Mark was right. He was happy to have Mark – his Mark – back on the couch next to him, filming him. For once this wasn't a meaningless gesture that Mark had found the beauty in. This was real, this was love.

This was a _very_ good night.


End file.
